Victory
by Significant Owl
Summary: Co-written with Dorotea Senjak. Angel and Spike and the inevitable. SpikeAngel, with a side order of SpikeLindsey. Set directly following "Soul Purpose."


**Victory**

"Appears you were wrong, mate," Spike said, gesturing to indicate himself, the bed - which _had_ been shared, contrary to prediction - and the man who'd done the predicting. Spike was a satisfied man and those words felt good on his tongue, so he added, "Rather spectacularly wrong."

"It appears," Doyle said, in that arrogant drawl of his. Spike had to concede to being a little impressed by a man who could admit defeat _smugly_. "Also appears this little bed worked out just fine."

Spike sat up and raked his hand up Doyle's bare back, letting his fingers linger on a large black tattoo. "As did the wall and the kitchen counter."

Doyle gave a short laugh. "Yeah. You vampires always so energetic?"

Surveying the destruction of the flat, Spike replied, "Just showing you a good time. You deserve it, making me corporeal and all - not to mention that last tip you gave me. Damn, that worked out nice."

Doyle turned to face Spike then, and his expression was a hundred things at once, and Spike didn't understand a one of them. "That glad Angel's okay?"

Spike snorted. "More like glad to have broody-britches' little gang buying me drinks, without worrying they've spiked 'em with holy water."

"I get that." Doyle slid his god-awful plaid shirt back on - why the higher powers couldn't bestow the occasion vision of good old basic black, Spike didn't know - and began searching around for his jeans and that even more god-awful belt.

In a very short time Spike was alone in his new home.

And alone was boring.

* * *

Angel watched Spike saunter into his office, not at all enjoying the gleam in Spike's eyes or the way he appeared to be sizing up the office for redecoration.

"Just going to brood in my direction? No hero's welcome?" Spike asked with a smirk as he stopped just in front of Angel's desk. Fucking _hell_, it felt good to be the hero, the champion, the savior's savior. "Afraid of the competition? I do this champion thing with so much more style than you do, tall, dark and dreary."

Frowning, Angel leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. "What do you want, Spike, a parade? I'm busy here."

To prove his point, Angel opened the folder in front of him and began flipping through the pages inside. But then he paused, there was something about Spike. . . Angel sniffed, and sniffed again. Yes. There was a different smell on him, a man's smell, and the more he took it in the more Angel thought he _should_ recognize it, but it was somehow right beyond his reach. . . .

Not that he cared who Spike had been with, or that he had been with someone at all. Of course not. Anything they'd ever had together had been a lifetime ago and, oh yeah, _evil_.

Angel turned another page.

"A parade?" Spike asked. "Wouldn't say no, specially if it's like Mardi Gras and the girls in accounting take off their tops. But -" _why was the great sod flaring his nostrils like that? Bug up his nose?_ - "But you know, I'd settle for a thank you, job well done. Welcome to the club? A bloody drink, maybe?"

Spike waited for a response, but seeing that Angel was set to shuffle papers like the corporate slug he was becoming, lost patience quickly. Spike slammed his fist down on top of Angel's. "You could at least bloody look at me, git."

Surprise, surprise, violence worked where words failed. Always _was_ like that with the old bugger.

"Spike," Angel said, his eyes all intense and glittery in a way that would've frightened him if the bastard had been wearing leather pants, "I see you. I see you every day. And _you_ -" and now it was Angel's turn to slam his fist into the desk - "you never shut up. You never _stop_. You think you're going to get somewhere but I told you before, you've already joined the club. It's the hell in a handbasket one, and I'm the one who signed you up, and I see that _all the time_."

"Cue the bleeding violins. We're damned, we should. . .what? Just sit and brood?" Spike pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Angel's desk.

Angel exhaled heavily. Spike always had to push. . ._everything_. "Would you just _leave_?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Can't mate, I'm brooding."

Spike sat for a several moments, fingers steepled under his chin, staring out at a point beyond Angel's shoulder.

Angel shook his head, wondering if this was his hell.

Spike suddenly bolted up. "This brooding is bloody boring! Don't know how you do it," he mused. Leaning across Angel's desk, he asked, "Bet I looked sexy brooding though, eh?"

The fuck of it all, the thing that made Angel's hell oh-so-very-special? Spike _had_.

"Well, why don't you go brood at your latest _companion_," Angel said, his voice dripping acid, "and leave me in peace?"

Ah, so _that_ was the reason for all the sniffing.

"Jealous, are we? Right, I forgot, you're a eunuch."

"I'm not jeal - hey! Don't people use dictionaries in this century? Remember Eve? _Not_ a eunuch!"

"Oh _that's_ right," Spike said, "you can have sex with people you hate!"

He stood, and spread his arms wide as if to say 'let's go, then' - and, remembering he was dealing with a vampire whose intuitive powers rivaled those of lichen, added an eyebrow waggle for good measure.

A quick leap, a flash in the air, and suddenly Spike wasn't alone on his side of the desk anymore, in fact he wasn't alone at _all_, strong arms were forcing him back, across the room and against the wall.

"Now would be a good time to start take that back, if you're planning on it," Angel said, close to his ear.

It was good to know the old man could still move like this, bloody _great_ to be the only one that could make him do it. Last time it was a cup and blood and a farce and _winning_; this time - this time Spike just might let Angel win.

Well - scratch that - let him _think_ he won.

"No plans for that, mate." There was something surreal about tasting skin he hadn't tasted in a hundred years; once he started Spike couldn't get enough of it, his lips were _everywhere_, and his final words were more thought than speech and more concession than he'd ever intended. "None at all."


End file.
